I am an official milk addict, and I have to have a glass every morning. As a result of this, I always keep a weather eye on the amount of milk I have in my refrigerator. I never let it get too low. I’ve even contemplated purchasing my own dairy cow, but the methane pollution would be too much for me. However, one morning I woke up to a scene that can only be described as utterly macabre; someone drank the rest of my milk. This was a major crisis, and I was on a mission to find milk to drink before I entered the doors of my workplace.
I had to walk to work that morning and there were no grocery or convenient stores along my route. I was beginning to get very nervous, and just before despair set in, I came up with a radical idea. I wondered if I could do something so simple, yet at the same time, so bold; I wanted to stop at Starbucks and order a regular glass of milk.
I wasn’t sure if they even sold regular milk; I know they have milk since all of their drinks require it. The question was, would they be able to simply transfer milk from the gallon container directly to the glass, or would it have to undergo some type of steaming and frothing process to pass Starbucks standards? I decided I had to try it.
I cautiously entered the Starbucks and got in line. While I waited for my turn I noticed that this Starbucks ran with machine like efficiency. Customers ordered complex items such as “iced caramel macchiatos” and “orange mocha frappuccinos,” and the employees at the register gleefully repeated the order so the employees making the drinks could hear the order. The drink makers then jovially repeated what they just heard, just so everyone in the entire coffee shop knows what everyone else is having.
When it was my turn to order, I took a deep breath, squinted at the menu and said, “Can I have a… venti… milk please? At this point the sound of a needle being abruptly taken off a record echoed throughout the Starbucks. The Starbucks assembly line, which five seconds ago was merrily buzzing through orders, stopped as quickly as an automotive plant at shift change. In the distance there was the sound of mugs breaking as they fell from the hands of shocked customers.
The employees stared at me dumbfounded. I turned to survey the other customers in the store, and the picture I saw was grim. The men met my eyes with menacing glares, while the women tried to get their crying and frightened children out of the horrible environment I just created.
I returned my focus on the transaction I was trying to complete, and the woman at the cash register asked, “You just want a regular glass of milk?”
“Yes,” I responded. “Just a regular glass of milk.”
“And you don’t want it steamed or frothed or…?”
“No thank you. Just milk please.”
“”OK then, one venti milk.”” the Starbucks cashier said, with a fair amount of contempt, to one of the beverage artists.
I watched as several, “”baristas,”” huddled in a corner to try and figure out how to meet the complex demands of my order. These people can “frapify” anything, but a simple milk order throws them off of their game. I wanted to lean over the counter and yell, “All I want you to do is tip the gallon of milk enough so the liquid comes out the top! Then catch it in a cup and give it to me” However, the tension at Starbucks was still very high, and I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
I reached for my credit card to pay, but then suddenly realized I wanted to pay in cash. Due to the extreme negative response my order caused, I was under the impression that I just triggered an international incident. Therefore, I didn’t want to leave a paper trail linking me back to the Starbucks where the milk was ordered. Nevertheless, I did indeed take my receipt, and I display it proudly in my bedroom as a constant reminder of the day I did the unthinkable; the day I ordered milk at Starbucks.